It seems every time I start, I stop,
as though I’m going through a metamorphosis
and I’m suppose to know to step back and watch.
Instead I’m forcing my way through the steps
of productivity for the sake of finishing, something.

Earlier at the dump I told the men that my kid
was going to be jealous that I was there without him.
One of them told me how much he liked Gavin and
that he’s a real nice kid.

The man has a stutter. Gavin doesn’t care. He waits
for the man to deliver his words, thinks about an answer,
and does. Then Gavin generally shows him whatever toy
it is that he brought along for the dump run.
It’s nice being at the dump.

Maybe I’m done. Maybe the dump run was enough.
I’ll just lie on the floor and watch the empty ceiling until
something happens.

Or maybe I’ll have an early beer and clean the toilets,
scrub the sink, put on some music, and finish this house
while ignoring contentedness trying to confuse itself as failure.

It’s raining this morning
and dark outside from the cloud cover.
Making me feel calm and comfortable.
I want to climb into one drop
and sleep. Maybe I’d awaken just
below the surface ready to view the
world differently and possibly I’d learn
what I’ve been waiting to know. Why
some view life with a malevolent eye
as others approach children with
sincere adoration and caring; how
is it that these two constantly carry on
generation after generation of sameness.